Love, Hate
by DivoTsvetche
Summary: As the Great War rages on just kilometers away, France and England - or rather, Francis and Arthur - take a moment to breathe, hidden away in a lavender field in Provence. (FrUK one-shot, written for the FrUK New Year's Gift Exchange 2015)


_Written for the FrUK 2015 New Year's Gift Exchange for burningdarkfire on tumblr._

**_Their prompt__:_** "_a meeting during a war, when they're not in a romantic relationship at the moment, whether they are exes/not yet in love/one-sided/just glimpses of each other on the battlefield/etc… nations or any kind of AU is fine!"_

**_Warnings: _**_none_

_Enjoy!_

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><p>Provence always looked lovely in early autumn, Francis thought as he looked out of his kitchen window; the sky took on a gauzy purple hue which matched the vast lavender fields perfectly if one caught it at just the right moment.<p>

There wasn't any lavender outside at the moment, of course.

Nobody grew lavender during war.

It was with bitter realisation that Francis tore himself away from his daydreams and from the window, focusing back on his task of finding a saucepan which wasn't rusted through; very difficult in a house as old as the one he was staying in. He'd had it built around 1770, if he remembered correctly, and one could easily admire that in every intricate swirl of the handrail which glided up with the stairs, or in the crackling robin's egg walls which reminded Francis of elaborate balls filled with flouncing lace and white curls. A memory stood out from the sea of opulent silks which used to fill the house's rooms, though; it was an image of Arthur – known exclusively as _Britain_ at the time, even to his allies – spitting viciously at him and shaking angrily in his red coat, swearing that he'd drive him to hell and watch him burn for going up against him in America. They'd been so bitter, then, Francis sighed (still rummaging for cookware which didn't look prehistoric); and it'd only been two centuries since then, barely a wink of time for a nation. And yet, here he was, reluctantly heating water in a tin mug for the cup of tea he was sure Arthur – his ally, for now – would like when he came by for his three days of rest away from the front. It was quite funny, in its own way, and Francis would have reflected upon it further had he not heard the sound of a motor rolling up on his driveway.

The moment England walked in, uniform and all, Francis could tell that he'd come directly from the front: his face was pale still, smudged here and there from burns and scars, and the arm underneath which his starched cap rested was trembling from exhaustion and pain (though it was obvious he was doing his best to conceal it). Francis saw it all – Arthur was well aware – but in an act of great sympathy, he ignored it and offered him his tea and a warm smile, both of which the Englishman gratefully accepted.

Leaving the other to compose himself at the dining table, Francis went in search of a glass for himself, all the while marvelling at how truly young Arthur looked to him; in the eyes of the world, he was an old man, but to the Frenchman it seemed criminal how taut his skin still felt, or how pink and unmarred his lips (with whom he'd had years upon years of experience, be they pouting or puckered) could remain. Of course, time and circumstance _had _taken its toll on the man, and even a hopeless romantic like Francis could see the way his miserable head barely held itself up so as to reveal heavy bags underneath his (once blooming with life, now burned up) green eyes.

"Lovely pictures," Arthur's voice suddenly sounded from behind him, causing Francis to nearly drop the wineglasses he'd been reaching for; and, abandoning that task for the moment, he turned around only to see the man standing and facing a wall splattered everywhere with paintings and photographs.

In particular, Francis noticed as he approached, he was looking at a specific portrait of two blonds, armed to the teeth with unspoken threats and fine cotton, and glaring at the camera as if their combined displeasure would make it suddenly combust. "Yes, well," Francis purred as he leaned onto Arthur's shoulder, "they are of my favourite subject."

"_Francis_." The tone in Arthur's voice was unmistakeably cold; he did not want to play games now, and the older nation forfeited, distancing himself once again. "When was this taken, again?"

"Why, do you not remember?" Francis cried in surprise. "It is our wedding day, _chéri_!"

A roll of the eyes from the other. "I could bloody well tell you that much; but which one, exactly?"

And here Francis was at a loss; the amount of times they'd had to stand in ceremony, as if their union would mean anything to history or to them, was ridiculously large. And for a man who prided himself on his love life, Francis had to admit that those marriages never could end well – not that it was his fault in any way, though. Humans were simply so volatile that it was difficult to know how long one would have to call the man in his bed his 'ally' before it'd be necessary to draw up a battle plan against him.  
>By now, however, Arthur had gotten bored (and once again his youth showed in his impatience, in never being satisfied with what he had and always seeking to change his focus) and he'd moved down the wall of pictures, mostly those of monarchs.<p>

Then, without warning, he stopped cold.

Sculpted brows crossed in concern, Francis followed him, only to see him staring firmly at a miniature engraving of Elizabeth I. While his body stood up stony still, the Frenchman could see him bite the inside of his cheek – a bad habit he'd always had, and which manifested itself whenever he was deep in thought – and a definite spark of sadness flashed momentarily through his eyes. Were he cruel, Francis might've jeered him for it (God only knew he deserved it); but, in matters of love, it was difficult to mock anyone, and even less so someone as detached and reserved as Arthur, who never dared to love unless the feeling was stronger than his will.

Though it might have seemed silly for immortals ruled by politics to dream of romance, nobody could really blame them: it was just so _easy_ to get wrapped up in the mundane every-day of human life and begin to fall in love and out again. As children they'd both done it, and as predictably as the turn of seasons, winter had come around and their hearts had been broken before spring showed its dewy face and a new passion seized their minds.

Between nations, on the other hand, it was a different matter entirely.

Could nations love each other?

Being the country of love, Francis had always found it ironic how impossible he found the question to answer. In his defence, it was complicated: as creatures of duty, they had to bend to the whims of every fickle human, and for France and England, the turn of history had more often than not dragged them out of each other's arms and onto opposing battlefields (though to say they hadn't relished in those battles more than once would be a lie, and Francis knew Arthur made it a point to remain brutally honest on the subject). That was not to say that Arthur and Francis were not close, though; centuries (millennia, even) had ensured that they would forever be near one another, and suddenly, Francis, prompted by a sweet nostalgia which reminded him of days at peace spent walking through shorelines (either at Dover or Calais), let his hand rest upon Arthur's shoulder.

He _bristled_.

Like a wounded wildcat that was in the midst of licking its own wounds, Arthur bristled underneath his touch, and if he'd been younger still and bearing the name Albion, Francis was sure that he'd have hissed, too. Maybe even bit him for good measure.

It was still too early for any friendliness, obviously.

So, he removed the offending hand and went back to the kitchen, emerging once again with two wineglasses (dusty and nearly cracking at the rim) and a bottle of fine vintage that he'd dug out of his cellar.

"Let us go out for a little picnic, _hm_?" Francis forced a smile, desperately hoping Arthur would agree to the suggestion. The house had suddenly gotten too old, too full of memories of battles and ghosts of times that had long since passed, and if Francis couldn't take his mind off of them, then he could at least physically tear himself away.

England, who'd been fixed upon the engraving of Elizabeth until now, turned around, the twinkle of emotion fizzled out and replaced by sternness lilting with worry - he'd worn that expression well since the war had started.

"Right," his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat before continuing. "Right, let's. Lead the way."

And so Francis (careful not to take him by the hand yet; when stressed, Arthur didn't take kindly to touch, no matter now innocent) guided his guest through a myriad of other rooms and corridors, all of them filled with artefacts of the life they used to entertain buried underneath white sheets, and he wasn't at all embarrassed when he breathed out a sigh of relief the moment they emerged from a set of glass doors onto the house's porch.

Francis didn't hear it, but Arthur sighed as well, loosening his shoulders for the first time since he'd come.

Beyond the broken wooden rails which guarded the house, the field which Francis had been looking at from the kitchen stretched itself towards the horizon. Dried now from the rain-less summer months and doused in warmth from the setting afternoon sun, the whole land took on a deepening orange glow, and for a minute, it was enough to make Francis forget about the fighting which would always start at dusk.

The nations were both familiar with this land; to Francis, it had been a sanctuary away from the constant pump of new-age factory machinery. To England, it had been a pit stop on his way to the Rhineland's coal mines, which had turned into a momentary holiday filled with wine and excess and reckless abandon that he had deemed improper enough to keep a secret for what must have been around 50 years now (and which he had made Francis swear to never talk about, as well). Just a few years ago, the ground had been carefully sown with lavender and raspberries and sweet nectarines, which in summer had made it the perfect grazing ground for a romantic poet searching for inspiration.

But again, nobody grew anything during the war.

No, the war – and Francis scoffed at whoever called it the _Great _War because the name erased the very senselessness of it – was not kind to the land. The thousands of men who fell upon it, only to have their bodies forgotten or buried shallowly in a shell-crater with no grave to mark their passing, ensured that every fruit bore the lingering taste of blood, as if to remind the world that they'd existed. Francis couldn't recall a single time in the past three years that he'd actually _enjoyed _his meal because of that.

"Well, come on now. No use in gawking at empty space, is there?" A hasty tone snapped Francis out of his thoughts and his eyes shifted to Arthur, who'd already started to walk through the overgrown grasses with a new spring in his step (one he'd lost not so long ago, but which the other rejoiced in seeing once more).

At last the Englishman decided he'd found a good spot (he prided himself on his understanding of gardens, and Francis would begrudgingly admit that this bloodthirsty, ill-tempered, high-strung lion of a man was, indeed, remarkably in tune with plants), and he sat himself down, inviting Francis to join him with a feeble wave of his hand. The Frenchman didn't need to be asked twice and he settled beside the other nation, relishing in the heat that he emitted and in the brief contact they shared when he handed him his first glass of wine.

He didn't encourage Arthur to drink; there was no need. The nation so often reached for a refill that Francis was forced to make another run to the cellar and bring out whatever scraps he could find: a sour Merlot, a few drops of cognac, and a whiskey which he'd bought for just this particular guest. Arthur alone nursed the latter, and it wasn't long before he'd shed off his jacket and his shoes, suddenly too warm and too confined.

It wasn't difficult to guess, from then on, why it was Arthur had become so very tired; the bandages and sutures which peeked out from underneath his dress shirt and hinted at more damage waiting to be unveiled spoke for themselves. His cold manners, too, were not unexplained, and for a minute Francis almost pitied this man who chose to spend his months hidden away in the trenches, drowning in bustling bodies and rain-water and mud; in such a situation, detaching himself and growing blind to the horrors which greeted him at every step was the only thing a man – nation or human – _could _do. Francis hadn't been able to last more than two years like that, retreating to strategic conferences back in Paris where the warmth of someone's touch hadn't become a prized commodity. Arthur, on the other hand, couldn't tear himself away from it; be it pride or a sense of duty which kept him running towards the frontlines with all the eagerness of a prisoner walking to his execution, the man hadn't yet given up on fighting, no matter the wounds and nightmares which flocked towards him the minute he stepped back in the trenches.

It was admirable, really. And it was so, so very like him.

When he looked back at Arthur, who'd now discarded his military coats completely and was left mildly red-cheeked (from the whiskey, no doubt, of which he hadn't stopped consuming copious amounts) in his pants and undershirt, Francis's breath hitched as a tender pang wrenched his heart.

If nations really could love, Francis wondered, then could it be possible that, between them, there could be even the slightest lingering spark of the feeling? For all the times they'd faced each other in the midst of war, could it be that…

"You're staring," Arthur's voice, gruff as ever but filled with curiosity, interrupted Francis' thoughts, and the latter, for all his world-famous shamelessness, swiftly returned his eyes back to his own wineglass, cheeks tinted an unusual pink.

"Not at all, _mon amour_."

The Englishman, so used to Francis' pet names by now (which usually meant nothing – but then again, he'd only ever called _Arthur_ 'my love'), snorted haughtily in response and reached for the whiskey again – empty. He always _had _had trouble pacing himself with drinking.

Francis was about to offer him a sip of the cognac when a small voice sounded beside him.

"Fucking terrible, innit?"

He blinked once or twice, confusion plastered on his face. "Pardon?"

"I said," Arthur groaned as he leaned back onto his elbows, "it's fucking terrible, isn't it?"

"Actually, I find it very charming in the summer, as did you in 1865 when—" Francis began before Arthur's familiarly irritated tone interrupted him mid-sentence.

"Not your garden, you tart. I meant the war."

"Well, all wars are terrible, Arthur," the Frenchman mused. And, though he wouldn't say it, he was relieved at the insult he'd received; it could only mean Arthur's mind was drifting away from the battle which awaited him, however temporary the respite might be. "I'd have hoped that you had realised that."

"This one in particular, though," the Englishman ignored the condescension that had been in the other's voice, eager to continue. "The whole world's at it and I feel like I can't quite keep up with every front. Every night at stand down I feel as if I couldn't possibly bear to see another man fall on No Man's Land. And yet…"

"You've got to keep calm and carry on?" Francis offered helpfully, quoting that one phrase which as of late had littered the Englishman's vocabulary constantly.

Arthur's eyebrows twitched up in agreement; he was too tired to keep on talking, heavy lines creasing on his forehead overtop his half-lidded eyes, and suddenly, Francis could see the real extent of the damage the war had done on his old friend's body. Somehow, his scars seemed fresher, and under the fading sunlight he could detect more and more bruises melding into his sickly pale skin. Everyone was hurting, obviously, but Francis wasn't used to seeing Arthur look so defeated; even when poised underneath his sword in Normandy, the boy had still held resistance in his eyes and in his snarl as he'd told Francis he'd never bow to him. But now, far gone was that vicious toxicity which would burn in his eyes, instead replaced by a military stiffness which only served to hold his frame up straight so that he may do battle without immediately collapsing on the field. And with this particular crutch abandoned (thanks in part to the alcohol, Francis was sure, but also to the sudden closeness they were afforded, which in this war was the highest luxury), Arthur looked more human than ever in his vulnerability, laying down in a field of wildflowers so that all of his pain may be exposed for Francis to see. And as he watched him breathe the crisp autumn air in, bandaged hands running absently along the tense sinewy lines along his neck, Francis felt he might've found the answer to his question.

Nations must have been able to love one another.

They must have, because otherwise, how could he, after decades, centuries, _millennia _of doing battle with England, find it in himself to gently bend down upon the other's body and press a kiss to those rose-petal lips which he knew full well hid nothing but thorns underneath? How else could he abandon their petty rivalries in a moment's notice just to hold and be held by the man with promises of warmth and relief far away from the cold damp trenches which were waiting for his return?

And, he mused to himself, leaning into the (surprisingly gentle; the war really _had _changed him) caress of Arthur's hand, it must make for a stronger love than any human's; because, in no other case could Francis imagine being so ready to spend the night with Arthur for the hundredth time, bodies desperately clinging to each other just for a taste of intimacy, all the while knowing that not only would he face him in battle again one day (and hate him passionately without a second's hesitation), but also welcome him into his bed and his heart the very next moment. It seemed nonsensical, really. But then again, if it _were_ love – and here Francis' thoughts began to lose themselves as Arthur whispered wonderfully naughty things in his ear to distract himself from the falling shells and sniper's shots not more than two-hundred kilometers away – then there'd be no reason to try to make sense of it.

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><p><em>Phew, I haven't written nationverse in, well, years. Mostly because it's difficult to tackle relationships between beings who are thousands of years old and represent political, social, and geographical bodies. But I had tonnes of fun, actually, and it turned out surprisingly fluffy (or, at least, my version of fluff, which is apparently comfort between a hopeless romantic with a mean streak and an emotionally-detached semi-alcoholic who embodies the line "concentrated power of will" from that one song by Fort Minor).<em>


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